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Announcing Write-A-Thon Winners
Write-a-Thon 2015 is finished!
Thank You to everyone that participated.
Here are the winners of our contests!
Sonnet Contest Winner:
On a plate, I place a spoon and fork,
And smeared a piece of butter all around.
Held my throat as I waited for the cork
To pop and free my trouble to be drowned.
The spoon and fork slid into the butter,
Bathing in fat as I sank in my wine.
Staring into nothing, I asked, “What’re
Those?” Rose-tinted glasses make things seem find.
I’ll ignore the pops and fizzles again
Because electricity isn’t cheap–
And all I need is paper and pen
To slip a mirage right into my sleep.
The bottle sinks empty, untold omission
And I’ll wake to my building’s electrician.
Sonnet Contest Runner Up: Marissa Gonzalez
NANO Fiction Winner: Gerald Smith
That’s that. The chicken drowned in the creek. My grandparents were born with grandparents suckling them and I was born in New Braunfels’ water with all of them dead. This is not to say I struggled so much more than they did, but only that there must have been something in their generation that made them die more quickly than the one before them. My mother’s father was born at the turn of the twentieth century and that’s a sad thing by itself. His first twenty years saw him walking from Baku to Utrecht with his sisters in a cart with his father’s dusty jacket. At the age of ten, he didn’t know how to swim and the boys of the Cote d’Azure called him the Russian bear. He died with an odd one eyed cat in Aix the taste of pushkin still on his lips and something growing in his brain.
My father’s father, a man who was definitely made of clay, was born next to a quarry outside Brownsville. His life saw a transition from dirt caked hands to dirt caked hands with vodka perfume. He was a man goddamnit and made you know it when he drove by splashing a black man in his Sunday best, and laughed, eyes bulging. He died with his brain in one of the three beds in the house and something growing in his colon.
If they had met and if they could speak the same language and if the sun hadn’t grown so bright at noon, they might’ve stood outside counting seed together.
NANO Fiction Runner Up: Lillian Martchenke
Ekphrastic Contest Winner: Caroline Cao
Kaguya at Leisure
My dad among the
the surplus of fathers
who whispered the stories
of the scraps of suitors
spinning artificial silk
plucking fragrant-less camellias
carving Buddha’s Begging Bowl
from second-hand table wood
seeking to have her
as their new ming vase.
Dads told it that way at daughters’ bedsides
“Kaguya was sad,” the dads said.
What else was there?
But the river-tears of Kaguya’s father
with her mother rubbing his shoulders.
Only I knew the
part of the story
when she bowed down
birds, beetles, bees
neglecting the wooing
of the princes and courtiers.
The pear blossoms
weren’t in season
but ah well.
It was before the era of her altars
and the fathers’ bedside stories.
This was before she submitted
to the moon delegation
to ascend from Earth.
When she resettled on the craters
the full moon glowed this portrait
of her ephemeral bliss on the meadow.
Her lips appear the utter the overdue,
which had always been muted by the floral screens
of her earthly bamboo-palace.
she does not look down
on her suitors chronic bowing.
She pinches her nose
at the Emperor’s shrines
and its stale incense.
She saves her smiles for daughters
“What about her?”